Wednesday, January 25, 2017

“I was
alone and orphaned, in the middle of the Pacific, hanging on to an oar, an
adult tiger in front of me, sharks beneath me, a storm raging about me”
(Martel, 107). Yowza. This quote encapsulates Pi Patel’s struggles in the 2001
novel, Life of Pi*. Suffice to say
that I’m not giving away any major plot points, considering the poster of the
movie adaptation looks like this:

Although
the movie is very visually appealing, the book takes the cake. Pi’s journey,
albeit fictional, is emotional to witness as a reader. Any tale of human
resilience in the face of such calamitous odds makes you feel proud to be a
part of the race. The story is structured as a first-person account, based on a
fictional interview that the author, Yann Martel, has with Pi Patel. It follows Pi’s life in India >> sea
voyage to Canada with animal cargo (his parents are zookeepers) >> abrupt
sinking of the ship, which results in Pi and a handful of dangerous animals left
on a lifeboat as the only survivors >> 227 brutal days stranded at sea
>> eventual rescue. I’m exhausted just typing that.

There are
many things I expect from a castaway book. Pi has a hallucinatory period in
which he goes blind, and he believes that he’s able to speak to the tiger, who
is talking in a French accent. That’s amusing, but it’s not necessarily
shocking, given the circumstances. Additionally, when animals are involved, I
presume that I’ll learn at least some basic facts about the species. Martel
teaches the reader about numerous animals in a straightforward voice that isn’t
too scholarly. He doesn’t go all zoologist on you, and I came away with quite a
bit of practical knowledge.

I also anticipate some sort of
religious aspect; if I survived such a wild series of events, I’d probably be
thanking God too. What I did not anticipate
is Pi’s particularly refreshing, unique take on God. Pi has a brilliantly
inclusive opinion on religion, evident in the fact that he’s a practicing
Hindu, Muslim, and Christian. The prophets and gods of each religion resonate with
him in compelling ways, and he focuses on what he considers to be the core of
each religion, rather than get caught up in peripheral details that might lead
to contradiction between the faiths. His convictions are personal and he
presents them without imposition.

Pi’s belief in a higher power
sustains him during his suffering, because he feels that both good and bad
emanate from a wholeness of the universe beyond his understanding. Religion
gives him dignity, which lifts his spirits when his stout vegetarianism is
compromised by the inevitabilities of starvation. He warns against human
arrogance in the face of something as grand as divinity, and he compares this
dynamic to the relationship between him and the beautiful, horrific, powerful
beast in his lifeboat. The acknowledgement that he is but a microcosm of the
divine provides him a mentality that helps him find peace while persevering. He
admits, “I saw my suffering for what it was, finite and insignificant, and I
was still” (Martel, 177).

The novel reminds me of The Old Man and the Sea for several reasons. One—the most obvious—is that the sea is
pertinent in both novels. We see the main character’s relationship with their
fellow creatures and watch how persistence in the face of the elements affects
that relationship. Taking a step further, I recognize humility in the face of
majesty. Pi and Santiago (the fisherman in Hemingway’s novel) exude a modest
reverence for the world around them, which makes us respect and root for them.
Neither Hemingway nor Martel force their main characters on readers; they
present them fairly unadorned and let us be the judge.

I, for one, find Pi to be an
incredible testament to the goodness in humans. While reading, I was
continuously inspired by his story (and Martel’s storytelling abilities), such
that I had to remind myself that the details didn’t actually occur. Of course, several
people in real life have survived being lost at sea, and similarly harrowing
feats occur on a regular basis outside of the ocean. But there is something
about Martel’s use of an imaginary story that more aptly captures the vibrancy,
range, and absurdities of human experience (as fiction typically does, IMO). As
such, Life of Pi receives 5
out of 5 camel humps.

Wednesday, January 11, 2017

I’m taking an Introduction to Improvisation class, which
permeates my life such that I’m constantly (obnoxiously) looking at the world
through an improviser lens. One thing the instructor keeps emphasizing: not every
scene has to have conflict. We might respond confrontationally on impulse in an
improv setting, but for the most part, it’s not enjoyable to watch, and it’s
not accurately indicative of what happens in real life. Usually, when someone
says, “Honey, I made you dinner”, you don’t respond with, “But I hate dinner,
it’s the worst meal of the day!” just to keep the conversation moving.

This speech
has a point, I swear. Zadie Smith’s seminal novel, White Teeth* is a great big melting pot of conflict. Everyone is
arguing with each other for 450 pages. The novel provides insight into the difficulties
of immigrant families; it explores the tension between desiring assimilation and
retaining traditions and identities. There are numerous main characters,
because Smith performs the ambitious exploration over multiple generations.
Such complex issues inevitably involve struggle, but as a reader, I have a
conflict boiling point. I want someone to make nice at least once, and I grow
exhausted by never-ending argumentative dialogue.

You might
be frustrated by the unceasing brawls, but at least you can find refuge in
great characters, right? Wrong. Smith has so much ground to cover that she
doesn’t spend enough time on one person, so no character gets fully developed.
The second we get to know him/her, he/she eludes us. What you end up with are
plenty of potentially interesting people who do nothing but quarrel.

Moreover,
the teeth motif seems forced and not very useful. I get it to an extent—having
white teeth is the common factor amongst so many diverse backgrounds, and the
handy (toothy?) root metaphor is easily accessible, allowing comparisons to the
homeland. But it’s a pretty lame motif if you ask me, and it’s not even
employed consistently. Smith weaves intricate plot lines that convey her skill,
but then she randomly throws in a quip about molars. Personally, I prefer pun
memes, like this one:

Needless to
say, I’m not a huge fan of this book. I wanted to like it, mainly because of
its notoriety. At the time of publication, it won numerous awards and was
received well by critics. It’s even listed on this amazing “100 Essential
Novels” scratch off that I got for Christmas (I recommend to all book lovers—the
scratching off process is very edifying).

Zadie Smith wrote White Teeth at age 25, a year that I
spent re-watching Breaking Bad and
learning how to expand my cooking beyond pasta. Obviously, she’s a talented
young woman. Unfortunately, the book didn’t do it for me, and I can’t in good
faith advise others to read it. White
Teeth receives 2 out of 5 camel humps.

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Lyndsay West

About Me

I’m a 25 year old lover of reading and writing. I was born and raised in Dallas, Texas, and I graduated from the University of Virginia in 2013. Currently, I live in New York City making my writing mark on the world via freelance work. Other interests include religious studies, philosophy, psychology, dancing, and live music.

Follow my twitter: @humpdayhardback

*Words underlined/highlighted in red are links to websites with more info on the topic.